Part 17

"You do me bitter injustice by this allusion," said he, quietly, and with emphasis. "I could not help it that that article was written. I had not read it before it appeared. If I had known of it I would never have given my consent to its publication. I found it tasteless and rough, and did not feel at all flattered by it, but ashamed. It has made me many enemies in Germany. In Rome, on the contrary, where it has been translated into French and Italian and printed in different journals, it has been of use to me, of great use, and you, Lensky"--for the first time Perfection called his former patron briefly by his name, which did not escape the latter--"you, Spatzig's _feuilleton_ has here--understand me correctly, here in Rome, where you have not been heard for thirty years; here, where they rely on Spatzig's judgment--immeasurably injured. I tell you truly, in the superficial musical world which here forms the decisive part of the audience, a great prejudice against you prevails. The hearty enthusiasm which everywhere else meets you is here limited to one or two hundred of your old admirers in the strangers' colony. So! There you have the situation." Perfection is silent.

Lensky's lips have drawn themselves ever more deeply down at the corners; his nostrils quiver, he passes his hand uneasily over the table between himself and Perfection. "That is all very instructive and very interesting that you tell me," said he, uneasily; "but how does it further concern me?"

"It is in your power to change the situation, and I would like to persuade you to do your part. H-m! it is so hard to speak of it to you, Lensky, you have such passionate prejudices; but, really, it will lead to nothing to further excite Spatzig. If you soothe his vanity, wounded by you, he will immediately write an article about you which will paralyze the effect of the one about me. He will make converts for you, will extol you just as zealously as he has formerly depreciated you."

"And what shall I do to cause this important reverse of affairs?" asks Lensky, with caustic scorn.

Perfection hesitated a moment, then he replied: "Call upon Frau Spatzig."

"So, then, Spatzig has a wife?" asked Lensky. "You surely must know; he has been married for more than six years."

"I had no suspicion, never troubled myself about Herr Spatzig's private affairs," replied Lensky, arrogantly.

"A former singer, Signora Zingarelli. She spoke with great interest of you; told me that, long years ago, on your first tour in America, she had the pleasure of learning to know you personally, and assured me that she would be very happy to see you again. She laid great stress on it."

"What is the lovely creature's name? Zinga--Zinga----"

"Zingarelli."

"So, Zingarelli!" Lensky laughed to himself. "That is indeed delightful, that is charming, really. The Zingarelli! I remember her distinctly. A Belgian with a pretty white complexion and red hair. I compliment Herr Spatzig. H-m! And I should call upon this lady?"

"It would be to your interest," said Perfection. "If it, nevertheless, would be disagreeable to you, I make you another proposition. I play to-morrow at a soiree at the Spatzigs. Come for my sake, to do me the honor, without having left a card before."

"H-m! To a soiree at Madame Zingarelli Spatzig's! Pardon me, does any one go to her house?"

"All Rome, especially the distinguished foreigners. She entertains a great deal. She brought Spatzig a considerable fortune."

"Yes, yes; she sang third _roles_ in Morelli's troupe in Russia. It is very tolerable to sing third _roles_ in a travelling Italian opera troupe!" Lensky laughed significantly.

Perfection was silent.

"But do not be so sanctimonious," now cried Lensky. "It certainly cannot be unknown to you that Zingarelli was a quite common courtesan."

"I know nothing of that," replied Perfection, coldly, with the suitable dignity with which a man of the world corrects a forward person who dares bring to light his facts of the past, which the man of the world has buried for his convenience. At the same time the pianist had risen from his chair. He took his hat. "Well, will you forget the old grudge, Lensky? May I tell Frau Spatzig that you are coming?"

"You are here in her commission?" cried Lensky, to whom a new reason for Perfection's manner had occurred.

Perfection, who had not found it hard to answer before, remained silent.

"I understand," said Lensky. "She needs me to show me. One knows by what arts such women charm society to their drawing-rooms. It would please her to lead about the old lion by a chain. There may even be a little advantage for him to permit it"--with a sharp glance at Perfection--"but--" He now stood before Perfection, drawn up to his full height, and gloomy. With a gesture which was peculiar to him when greatly excited, he raised his arms and clenched his fists.

"You can tell her," cried he, slowly letting his arms sink--"you can tell her that I would rather stand in the pillory and be stared at by the passers-by than set foot over the threshold of the Spatzig couple. It would seem less degrading to me than to sue for the favor of this pack of idiots."

A minute later Lensky was alone in the room. Perfection has withdrawn with a deep bow. Lensky had the feeling that a misfortune had occurred--a misfortune which was his fault. He did not know what, and could not measure the consequences of what had happened. Suddenly his heart beat loudly and heavily. The sweat of anxiety stood on his brow. Why had he not better governed himself?

But what wonder? He had never been able to govern himself; how should he learn it as an old man?

XXXVIII.

Except that from principle he never touched his bow on the days of his concerts before he presented himself to the audience, Lensky spent this day just like any other; one perceived no outward excitement about him. This time it was otherwise.

Early in the morning he visited his wife's grave in the pretty churchyard by the Cestius pyramid, at the foot of the Aventine. When he returned his face bore the signs of severe weeping, and he shut himself into his room for many hours. Mascha heard him practise. He incessantly tried passages on his violin as if he would strengthen his memory. At lunch he sat down with his children, but could eat nothing. He complained of weariness in his left arm. Twice the fork fell from his hand.

In the afternoon Mascha proposed a drive, having noticed that he was restless and uneasy. He consented. On the Corso they met Frau Spatzig in her carriage. Lensky was about to remove his hat, then he was ashamed of his cowardice, and turned away his head.

They drove far out in the Campagna. The fairy charm of spring spread the fragrance of its renewed life over the graves and ruins. Dreamily Lensky's eyes wandered over the wide plain. He recognized everything. How often he had driven along this street with Natalie! He felt young again, a feeling of elevating enthusiasm took possession of him.

And suddenly a vibrating and singing began in his soul. He listened breathlessly. What wonderful songs were those? He could have written them down now, immediately.

But did that really all ring through his soul? It seemed to him that he heard the music vibrating down to him from above. He bent forward----

Ever lower, the song sank down to earth, with its consoling, calming compassion, the divine compassion of an angel who understands the pain of a tormented human heart.

Lower, ever lower, softer, fuller--hark! The song had ceased, a rough breeze had blown it away.

Lensky looked up. Near the street stood a white church-yard wall, and tall, dark cypresses rose around it. At the gate stood white-robed monks around a coffin; the black smoke of their red, flickering torches darkened the bright spring air; from their lips sounded a dirge.

The carriage rolled on; the gloomy picture vanished; around ruled the spring. The breath of new life rose from the earth covered with fresh green, and in the hedges the flowers kissed each other.

XXXIX.

"Really, without evasion, what do you think of Lensky?" It is the Countess Loewenskiold, one of the former Lensky enthusiasts, who asks this question of Albert Perfection. She sits in one of the first rows of the Salla Dante, between Perfection and Madame Spatzig, with whom she is quite intimate, and awaits Lensky's appearance on the stage.

"I have such an insurmountable feeling of reverence and gratitude for Lensky that my judgment may not be impartial," replied Perfection, correctly.

"Perfection, _pas de betises_, give your true opinion," commands Frau Spatzig in her rough, guttural voice.

"Well, my true opinion is: I regret that with Lensky the summits are so near the abysses," says Perfection. "You must not misunderstand me, honored Countess----"

The Countess laughs and strikes him with her fan. "I understand you very well," cries she. "The epigram is wonderfully descriptive."

"Alas! it is not original with me; it comes from De Sterny--but how unpunctual Lensky is to-day." Perfection looks at his watch. "Half-past nine."

"And yet he will play all that for us?" says Madame Spatzig, and points to an unusually long programme.

"It is indeed a somewhat tasteless and overladen musical _menu_," murmurs Spatzig, who sits behind the Loewenskiold. "Shall you remain until the end, Countess?"

"Impossible, my friend."

"Still, he should begin," says Madame Spatzig.

"He has surely not become ill?" meanwhile, a few seats away, whispers Mascha to her brother. "Suppose you go and see."

Then Lensky steps on the stage. His face is flushed, he stumbles over a chair, collects himself, and bows. Spatzig looks at him attentively. "H-m! He is nervous as a conservatorist," murmurs he.

He takes up his violin. His programme begins with Beethoven's C minor sonata dedicated to Emperor Alexander.

How wonderfully he played it formerly, with what noble comprehension of the magnificent earnestness of the composition. Now----

A mocking smile appears ever more plainly on Frau Zingarelli Spatzig's face. The critic whispers to Countess Loewenskiold. "One has seldom heard such poor playing in a public concert," he remarks. One scarcely recognizes the sonata. Quite without taking breath, he springs from one movement to the next. The _scherzo_--formerly it was a masterpiece of grace and poetry. Now--is that really Lensky who chases the bow over the strings with this stumbling, musical insolence?

Mascha's cheeks burn with shame; she looks to the right and left, shyly and anxiously, expecting something terrible. She would like to hold the people's ears, or call to them: "Wait, have patience with him, he will surely come to himself." Before they know it, he has finished the sonata.

A moderate applause accompanies his exit. One shows him the consideration due to a celebrity. Mascha breathes freely, as after a danger passed through. All at once the hushed hand-clapping breaks forth afresh, becomes importunate, immoderate, supported by loud cries of "Bravo!" The couple of hundred young Russians present, students, painters, or archaeologists, pay homage, in their uncomprehending, mistaken national enthusiasm, to their great man.

At first the Romans put up with it. Lensky has appeared upon the stage; he bows solemnly, benevolently. He does not know that he has played badly, and is pleased at the enthusiasm.

Spatzig still whispers to the Countess Loewenskiold and holds his sides with laughter. The Russians are wild. It is too bad; Madame Spatzig makes a little attempt--only from petulance--behind her fan, so that no one perceives it; she begins to hiss. Then around her through the whole room, louder and louder, resounds the cutting, scornful sound, louder, ever louder.

Lensky stands as if rooted to the ground; then, mechanically raising his hands, he makes the old, proud gesture with which he used to repel too violent applause. But the hissing increases, loud insults are mingled therewith. The horrid noise with which an Italian audience expresses its displeasure and scorn resounds through the sober, cold hall.

Then Perfection springs up. "Silenzio!" he thunders to the excited public--and all is hushed.

Lensky has withdrawn from the stage. A strange feeling prevails. One feels that something terrible has happened. A brilliant fame has been wiped out. A great man has been insulted.

Several people leave the hall. The entertainment is over, why wait? It is not possible that the concert should proceed. Mascha and Nikolai rise to go to him; then a murmur goes through the ranks, some one is coming; one expects a manager, any one, who will announce to the audience that Lensky is ill. Or is the pianist to play his number? No; it is Lensky himself who comes on the stage. He holds himself stiffly, looks neither to the right nor the left; no hand moves to greet him. They really do not understand what he wishes, but they remain seated. They look at him with attention, respect, and remorse. How miserable he looks, and how noble and magnificent! His eyes shine with a supernatural light from his face, which is pale and sunken like that of a corpse.

Already after the first stroke of the bow a touched consideration spreads through the hall. What is he playing? Nobody knows, but no one remains unmoved who hears him, and no one will forget these tones--a melody which no one knows, and which carries all away with it, sublime, wonderful, compassionate, and elevating. It is the great word in art which he has sought in vain during his whole life, and which he has found at last, now--no one has yet ever heard the violin played thus. Every thought of strings and bow vanishes. It is an angel's voice which sings. A shudder creeps over those who listen, a kind of sacred terror, as if something supernatural, spiritual, drew near. Then--all at once he stops. Has a string snapped?

The hand with the bow has sunk down; he bends his head forward--listens. To what does he listen?

His face takes on a glorified, ecstatic expression. He gives a short cry, then stretching out both arms, he falls to the floor. He had grown young again, the dead had arisen for him. He no longer felt the weight of his body, the great soul was set free.

He had indeed known that something wonderful must come in Rome.

* * * * *

They brought him to the hotel, the physician came--two physicians. One did what one could. All attempts at reanimation were in vain. The doctors pronounced it heart failure. At two o'clock in the morning the two children of the deceased remained alone with the corpse.

XL.

On the third day after his death the burial took place, with great pomp and an immense crowd.

Only when one misses a dead man can one fully recognize his greatness, and to the artist world which assembled round Lensky's coffin in Rome it grew plain that they had buried a giant. At first the Russians would not consent that the body of their great man, who had so unspeakably loved his fatherland, should be confided to strange earth, but his children knew that he had wished to be buried near his wife in the strangers' cemetery at the foot of the Aventine, and they respected his last wishes.

Mascha's inner self was wholly shattered. Not only her husband, but also her mother-in-law, had come from Venice to be present at the funeral solemnities, to support, to console the broken young woman. She repelled every consolation.

In spite of her great physical exhaustion, she would not be prevented from accompanying the corpse to the edge of the grave. They were afraid that she would swoon when the body was lowered into the grave, but she stood up erect.

When the mourners returned from the burial to the hotel, the table was laid for them in the drawing-room. Sonia, who had been present in these sad times, and like a warm, mild sunbeam had assisted benevolently and unobtrusively, stood near the samovar. With loathing, Mascha turned away, and hurried to her room, where she shut herself in. She who had borne so much sadness and trouble without complaining, this time knew no bounds to her grief. Baerenburg, Nikolai, her mother-in-law--one after the other knocked at her door to say something loving to her, to console her. She admitted no one.

Stiff and erect, she sat there in the first chair she could find, deathly pale and tearless.

"Console!" said she to herself, bitterly. "Whom will they console?" They, none of whom understand what she has buried with the great, stormy heart that rests at the foot of the Aventine. She has lost the only person who fully understood her, whom she could wholly confide in. The man who has petted and indulged her, and cared for her like a little child who has hurt itself--had wrapped her warmly and securely in his protecting tenderness when the rest of the world turned from her. It seemed to her that life has paused around her. All is hard and cold.

Her husband at last won admittance to her. His flat words of consolation, his attempts to calm her with caresses, excited her almost to madness. She, who had formerly always tolerated him near her with the same even friendliness, repulsed him, no longer mistress of herself, this time with a furious roughness at which a deeper-thinking man would have been frightened. But he explained this violence by overstrained nerves, and withdrew with a last mild, kind word on his lips.

When the door had closed behind him, an indescribably painful feeling overpowered her. Never before had she felt his triteness so plainly as in this moment when her agony tore down, with its tyrannical ruthlessness, all her carefully piled-up deceptions. For the first time she realized the whole irremediable flatness and dryness in which her future must drag on--her future with this man who was a stranger to all her deeper thoughts and feelings.

Her last prop had fallen with her father. For love of him she had at least tried to appear happy; but now, for what purpose--why? She could no longer bear her existence. It was impossible to live longer.

Then she heard the steps of insecure little feet approaching her door; then the soft knocking of two tiny little fists, which wounded themselves on the hard wood; an indistinguishable tender word lisped by soft child's lips.

She started up and opened the door. Without stood Natascha and her nurse. The nurse drew back. The child stared at her mother, whose pale face and long mourning dress seemed strange to her; then she nestled in her dress and began to stroke and caress the black folds violently. The young wife raised the child in her arms. Natascha did not cease to embrace and kiss her mother with the touching, helpless tenderness of a little being in whom love has awakened before intellect, who suspects a pain which it does not yet understand, and would fain console before it can yet speak.

For the first time Mascha's pain dissolved in tears. Sobbing, she pressed the little girl to her breast. "Bear your cross patiently," she murmured, thinking of the words with which her father in that fearful night in Venice had calmed her heart, rebelling against its oppressive lot. "Bear your cross!"

She kissed the child again and again, and the grief for the dead met in her heart the love for this sweet young life.

* * * * *

And Nikolai?

He bore the great loss calmly, so calmly that Mascha, who suspected nothing of his feelings and who was without the key to them, ascribed utter indifference to him.

Really, his father had died to him before. He had lost him on that hot June day in Paris. He had only buried him in Rome.

While he watched by the coffin through the two mild spring nights, he had sought his pain and could not find it.

But now, after the restlessness which is always bound up with the last solemnities is over, after the dead one has been carried away, and he can fully measure the great chasm which the death of his father has rent in his existence, a sadness increasing with every hour overwhelms him. Weary from watching as he was, he nevertheless did not close his eyes in the night which followed the burial. His thoughts were constantly occupied with the dead as with a great riddle.

He saw the strange, great man before him in all his phases. He saw him as a young man, with his proud bearing, his dark, attractive, expressive face, his quick, energetic earnestness full of fire, and that irresistible gentleness and tenderness of very violent men, who are continually afraid of paining their loved ones by a rough word, a thoughtless wildness. He saw the change which slowly took place in the attractive face, and how it grew coarser, and still something of the old charm remained--yes, with advancing years became more evident--a charm which summarized an expression of unspeakably sad kindness.

There was something fairly startling about this kindness, this rich, unwearying compassion. It was as if destiny had punished him for all that he had done in his wild violence of life, by condemning him to forever bear about with him this great, warm, restless, sympathetic heart.

Nikolai would have so willingly grieved for his father from his whole heart, and thought of only the great and noble in him. He could not. The old, hateful story still tormented him, tormented him so much the more as he reproached himself with thinking of it now, and it seemed to him small and repulsive in every respect to remember any fault of his father after his death.

Early in the morning, before any one else was stirring, he went out, took a carriage, and drove to his father's grave.

He had to walk a long distance through the graveyard before he reached it. At last he discovered the grave. A mountain of wreaths covered it. At the foot kneeled a black form, bowed deeply over her hands, praying.

Was that Mascha? Could she have come before him? He hurried nearer. No, that was not Mascha. Slowly she rose; it was Nita. Her eyes met his. It thrilled him through and through. They were the same wonderfully beautiful eyes, the remembrance of which had followed him across the sea, which he loved so unspeakably, and--which had once so pained him. Some change had taken place in them. The shadow which had formerly darkened them had vanished. Ah! how loving and kind were those eyes now, somewhat sad indeed, but with the sadness of a great compassion, of a hearty forgiveness.

The bitterness of a hateful recollection had no place more in this pure, warmly beating heart.

He lowered his head before Nita's brilliant glance, quite ashamed. What thoughts could he have of his father if she could forgive!

She seemed surprised to see him, but she betrayed no embarrassment at meeting him at the grave of his father. As he silently removed his hat, she came up to him with all her old freedom and gave him her hand. She evidently remembered that she had once caused him pain, and was sorry for it. Then she spoke a few words to him in her sweet, soft voice, in an undertone, as one speaks near the dead; smiled at him, crossed herself once more before the grave, and went.

He looked after her as she moved away among the dark cypresses as lightly as if borne on clouds, ever further, further between the white tombstones; looked after her, astonished, thoughtfully. Then he bent down there, where she had knelt, pushed the flowers a little aside, and kissed the fresh earth.

All was calm within him. He had finished one great period of his life. It was not only his father whom he had buried there, under the flower-covered mound; it was the last trace of a foolish hope which had, until then, prevented him from turning his eyes from his beautiful youthful dream and looking reality courageously in the face.

He had never ceased to love Nita, he knew that he would always love her, but calmly and undesiringly as one loves a saint or the dead.

When, a half-hour later, he left the graveyard, he bore his head high, and had the earnest, resolute look of a man who has begun a new life.